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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

B y Albion’s best estimation, half the witching hour had passed before he detected the creak of the door.

Someone had come into the room where he was pretending to nap.

After a long night of summoning more bad rhymes about the Phantom and losing money to Prinny, the inimitable Albion Higgins was worn to the bone.

Albion tried to calm his heart, for he must still pretend to sleep. If the person who entered was either William or Edward Langley, or both, they would impart a quick, sharp whistle to indicate that fact. If it were someone else entirely, Albion had no plans to stir until they left.

A gentleman’s boots tread on the floorboards, but he heard no other sound. After counting to ten in his head, Albion took a labored breath and gave the subtlest of snores.

The footsteps stopped. Albion sensed the unknown fellow looking in his direction. He forced himself to remain still, slumping slightly over his shoulder as if in deep slumber. He would not open his eyes—not yet.

The enigmatic gentleman sat on the opposite side of the room, in one of the chairs around the dining table.

Albion couldn’t see this, but he sensed it by the sound of footsteps and the scraping of the chair’s legs against the hardwood floor as he moved it away from the table.

Albion supposed that was sensible, given the unappetizing state of the spread.

Still, he wondered why anyone would want to persist in this chamber, particularly as Albion had already claimed the only comfortable piece of furniture.

With any luck, this visitor would tire of sitting in the uncomfortable chair and leave soon enough. Albion began counting once more to steady himself and track the time that had elapsed since the man came in: five minutes and ten. Again, he snored.

After an additional quarter of an hour, when the stranger still had not budged, Albion grew anxious, like a trapped animal.

He opened his eyes just enough to see, but hopefully not sufficient to be observed waking.

If, by chance, the gentleman in the room noticed, Albion would play the laziest, drowsiest version of himself he could muster.

The stranger faced the door as though expecting someone. Albion could only just make out his profile, but it seemed familiar.

He could hardly open his eyes wider and greet the fellow. So he pretended to doze, Albion Higgins, somewhat ridiculous even when he slept.

Diana kept looking up toward Lord Mandeville’s dining room. She couldn’t help herself. What had happened? Did her information help Reginald? Had he found the Phantom?

If so, how was she supposed to carry on, bearing such terrible guilt?

Even if no one else knew. Diana bore the secret of her past affection for Nigel Halman because disclosing it would hurt Lillian and do no good.

But this secret? This unforgivable act? It may well have condemned an honorable soul to death.

There was no hiding this, no burying it deep in her mind.

She had already informed Albion that she felt ill and quite ready to leave, even if it was unfashionably early and uncommonly rude to excuse herself from a ball prior to the night’s supper.

Albion rubbed her shoulder soothingly and immediately ordered their coach brought up to the front of the townhouse so they could make their way home forthwith.

At present, Diana tried to smile as they waited near the foyer for their carriage and team. His Royal Highness continued his tale to the small group that had gathered around him, a story in which her husband, feted pet of the ton , played a central role.

To Albion’s credit, he could win an astounding number of hands at the card table. That was how the others had put it. This evening, however, misfortune finally caught up with Albion Higgins, to the Regent’s benefit.

“Your husband is a clever enough fellow, as one knows,” he told her as a small group of finely dressed hangers-on hovered around him, intrigued by the flush of victory animating their Prince Regent. “Yet one can only make so many runs at the table without fortune finally shifting its favor.”

“Win or lose, it matters little,” Albion said. “As long as we all have a fine time.”

The Regent clicked his tongue. “Your good nature is without parallel, Lord Albion. Not only do you relinquish money easily, but you also compose and recite poetry. Astonishing. Wouldn’t you agree, my lady?”

Diana nodded and flung her fan open, hoping it helped mask the distress etched on her face.

And not over Albion’s losses at the gaming table.

Her husband knew how much money he had at his disposal and what amount he could safely lose—sums that would bankrupt nearly any other gentleman in London.

Though she noted a stiff formality in the exchange between the Regent and Albion that she had never heard before, like they were players on stage pretending friendship.

Perhaps her husband hadn’t won quite as gracefully as His Royal Highness was trying to make it sound.

“Your verse concerning the Phantom is wretchedly clever.” The Regent grasped his lapels, calling attention to his coat adorned with a blaze of medals that nearly outshone Orcan sapphires.

“Consider finding a publisher for the verse. Perhaps one who can set it to music? One never knows. You might earn back some of your fortune that way.”

Her husband swept his elegant hands behind his back.

“Not that it compares to your Shakespeare’s sonnets or such.

But I felt moved to address this man who hides among us in verse.

I said to myself, Albie. I said, Albie, you must become an expert on this matter, or the ladies shall find you a perfect bore. ”

This comment compelled further laughter. Diana’s cheeks burned. She waved her fan, observing a lady or two running their eyes over her husband’s form.

“I see some fresh faces in our fair circle,” the Regent said, addressing the group as he would a regiment assembled for review. “Would you like to hear Lord Albion’s poem?” And then to Albion: “Might you see fit to relay it one more time?”

Albion shrugged his assent. “Why don’t you give it a go, Prinny? While I see about my horses. It’s been a blessedly long time since I asked for them.”

“Famous! Though one is saddened to see you take your leave of us so soon. Lady Higgins, shall you grace us with your presence for a few additional minutes?”

The Regent didn’t bother to wait for a response. And it seemed to her his voice was mocking, nearly cruel, as he gave the oration.

Has he taken to the sea?

Or with a woman did he flee?

God save this gent over me,

This Phantom of Chamberly.

Like flies to honey, the guests laughed, clapped, and repeated the childish rhyme, Diana felt as if she had transformed into a wind-up toy, compelled forever to smile without the benefit of emotions. The only words that stuck at the moment were those she had seen on the note to Edward Langley.

I shall journey to C. at daybreak to ensure all goes well. If you need to clarify any instructions, meet me in the dining room at a quarter of midnight.

It had been simple enough to commit those words to her memory, but what torture they had been in the minutes that followed.

She had delivered the message to Sir Reginald in a hasty whisper, triggering a horrifying grin she would never banish from memory.

Diana had complied. She became his spy. And she hated herself.

Ultimately, what choice could she make but one that protected her sister? If forced to choose, Lillian’s well-being would always come first.

Now, Reginald prowled around the group gathered, like a Phantom himself, steadily ignored by His Royal Highness.

Maybe Reginald didn’t know. Maybe Edward Langley’s note was a love letter, after all, and of no use in identifying the Phantom. But then he must still give her credit for trying. Mustn’t he? Perhaps she would extricate herself from this miserable situation after all.

The best course of action, the least awful of many bad choices, was to deal with this shameful situation herself and not taint her husband.

But the circumstances were now beyond her control.

Before Reginald could enlist her help for his terrible mission again, she would beg Albion to extract Lillian.

In the meantime, however, she had to know who Reginald had found in the dining room.

Once the Regent excused himself to make the smallest of talk with a fresh set of admirers, Diana caught Reginald’s eye.

She inclined her head toward one side of the foyer, relatively empty, and Sir Reginald followed her lead.

“What of it?” Diana whispered once they were out of earshot of the other guests. “Did my intelligence assist?”

To her horror, he took a pinch of snuff from his box and indulged his vile habit, sniffing mildly afterward.

“Your information was most informative, my lady,” he told her.

The words were like a dagger of ice plunged into her heart. “You found him?”

“I located the man I sought,” Reginald said carefully. “The Duke of Rostin will have what he needs to apprehend this outlaw and bring him to justice.”

“Justice,” Diana muttered, the familiar shame drowning her last hope. She had satisfied Reginald’s request. For now. Who knew what he might ask of her next? As long as Lillian remained in Chamberly she was in peril.

“If you see fit to pursue it, you have a grand future ahead of you in spycraft.” Sir Reginald placed his snuff box back into the pocket of his frock coat.

“I do not doubt that. Now, return to your husband, as is proper, dear. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be long without his wife. No matter her faults.”

Albion was fond of handling his team rather than relying on a coachman, so Diana joined him on the carriage’s high board this evening. The weather was fair, her opera cloak sufficient to shield her from the slight chill, and she hoped the fresh air would help steady her nerves.